


Cartographer

by unknowableroom_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: One Shot, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-30
Updated: 2009-04-30
Packaged: 2019-01-19 02:21:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12401124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unknowableroom_archivist/pseuds/unknowableroom_archivist
Summary: He was thrown off course, absolutely perplexed–flushed face with glassy eyes all punch-drunk with thoughts. It's Christmas and Sirius has no idea what to buy. [Written for Ficexchange 2008]





	Cartographer

**Author's Note:**

> Note from ChristyCorr, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Unknowable Room](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Unknowable_Room), a Harry Potter archive active from 2005-2016. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project after May 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Unknowable Room collection profile](http://www.archiveofourown.org/collections/unknowableroom).

Sometimes, Sirius thinks he can fit the Forbidden Forest in his hand, delicately, with the attitude one takes to a newborn kitten. But he doesn't _like_ kittens and all that, and he, of all people, knows the danger the Forest brings. He thinks he can hold it, because it brings him just a little bit closer to everything, because the Forest is... _space_ and he's one of those astrocats or astrognats (or whatever Lily calls them) careening through space. If only he could just careen a little bit further and grasp... _him_ by his coattails.

As idyllic as Sirius can be, he (once again) is primordially aware of the supremacy of gravity. He is now also aware that that sort of careening in space is wholly related to a lack of gravity, and knows that he could just swirl past. Sirius is _not_ the swirly type, especially when it relates to one Remus Lupin, nosiree. The whole of Hogwarts, as well as gravity, will hear the will of Sirius Black. And this will is to swirl a bit through the air, flex heroically, and shimmy his hips a little before he careens his way into the heart of Remus Lupin.

He is, however, undoubtedly sinking into the quicksand plush of The Gryffindor Common Room Chair and the only space anywhere near the palm of his hand is not delicate in the slightest, but rather destroyed by awkward seams, fitted with wobbly elbows, and residing between his chair and the next. The chair where lived the goal of Sirius Black, Conqueror of the Kitchens: Remus Lupin.

He's not sure if he's breathed in the last half hour, this Sirius. He's been imagining and wishing, simple and true, compass in one hand and quill in the other: an explorer, of sorts. A cartographer: tracing every inch of his shading, his cross-hatched nose and those whimsical cheekbones. If only he could inch closer and just _touch,_ to see the way his bones align, creating something so untouchable. There's an odd welling in his throat and his chest feels rather _tight_ and his tongue is almost going sporadic in his mouth with the urge to speak while having nothing to say.

Naturally, there's a rather festive mistletoe twig hogging the entrance and the suggestive majority of his brain takes a leaf out of that-gnat-thing-with-the-Bubble-Head-Charm's book and goes careening itself, sending messages to another part of his body! It's just wholly ironic that the whole cause of this situation—that is to say, this _thinking_ thing—is a result of all that bloody holiday inactivity. (Not that Sirius is complaining, but you know, some aspects of life are just bollocks.) And those pixies aren't exactly helping, whizzing around like that instead of being all nice, blue, shiny and wholly attached to the tree. Oddly reminiscent of Remus' eyes: awash with jewels burning brightly, all cerulean, cobalt, and sapphire shards.

The problem is, of course, Christmas, being the celebration that it is, compounded by Sirius'...currentlycompletelyinappropriatethoughtsaboutremus'— _sentiments_ , which, being what they are, have him in a bit of a fix. Then there's the matter of _Christmas presents_.

He knew things were quite amiss when people suddenly started ravishing his favourite armchair across from the fire—you know, the one in which he skips History of Magic—like it was some sort of public bath or bench or something. He was absolutely positive that they weren't in a Communal, or Communic, or whatever country, but rather, the Union of Stupendously Sirius Revellers. He hadn't immediately noticed the second atmospheric shift, as his observation skills had been lingering on other (far better) objects. Nonetheless, slowly but surely, the iconic Gryffindor scarlet was sullied with Yuletide green. The final straw was when his faithful rendition of "Wizards Gotta Rock" by Fiendfyre was dethroned by _We Three Kings_ as the favoured Shower Song. There was no beating the vermin spreading Christmas, a new form of auto-immune disease with which your brain decimates your body until it can no longer resist. In this case, the Sirius wall was slowly but surely overcome by opposition on either side, after a long, arduous resistant effort.

His own shopping is limited to a select few (and a progressively shortening list of) close friends, all of whom do not expect anything that takes immense consideration anyway. Thus, his usual shopping commenced at the timely and appropriate day of Wednesday, a full _week_ before the dreaded day. With James and Peter done, he...

He was thrown off course, absolutely perplexed—flushed face with glassy eyes all punch-drunk with thoughts, too many and too few; with the oblivion that is a consequence of facing a brick wall, or perhaps the end of the reverie in which indolence did dwell. Oh, he had _ideas_. Sirius Black was never lacking in those, though quality remained to be seen. And so the week passed.

Absentmindedly, he fingers Ye Olde Crumpled Liste in his pocket with a wholly unusual, _thoughtful_ look on his face, before wrinkling his nose in distaste as if any sort of contemplation smells akin to a hundred maggot-ridden, decaying Flobberworms doused in Bubotuber pus. He shakes himself, a dog attribute of sorts, and focuses on the task at hand: Christmas is _tomorrow_ , after all.

The list reads:

 

_A Sock, spitting out chocolate frogs._

_A fellytone, in the shape of a shoe._ (Sirius had stumbled across this—or rather, right into this—in James' trunk for some reason while he had been hunting for a spare pair of pants to borrow. He did not know that some fifth year girls had thought his pants particularly interesting, and had kept them as a Hogwarts Keepsake.)

Or _a watch_? A watch was dreadfully sensible.

_A photo-frame that lets you retrace anything that happened today._

 

Yet transient time slips from his supple fingers, as if the minutes spin, ever-bright and invisible, a thread in the spell within which sluggish hours swell. Threads that languorously link the lines, measures of the shape of Remus' face faithfully, sincerely, and resiliently unlike any sepia-toned photograph, in the depths of Sirius' mind. His scent: sandalwood, dirt and sweat; the subdued whining he makes in his sleep—predominantly, and above all, these are the memoirs that linger when all recesses of the past have been cast (willingly or not) adrift. And these are the ones that will remain.

It strikes him then, with startling clarity. His present could indeed _be_ , given that the shops in Hogsmeade are open late for Christmas trading. Sliding out of his chair with ease, he tosses a grin at Remus.

"Don't wait up, mate. I'll see you in the morning."

* * *

And, of course, with a bit of luck, love, and pixie dust, it is complete.

The flimsy breeze unfurls its wings; the effulgent paper rustles as if restless emotions stirred beneath its fibres. Unsheathed, it is a cascade of colours, rough diamonds and real gems flitting, slipping between the fittings of their semicircle-edges.

Bemused, Remus tilts his head, glancing back at the package. "A _puzzle_?"

Sirius shifts slightly. "I stole the idea off Dumbledore, actually, so I can't claim complete originality. Put it together, you'll see."

"You got me a blank _puzzle_?" Remus questions, slightly perturbed.

"It only works when it's completed."

With a surprising dexterity, Remus' calloused fingers slide each unknown periphery into its complimentary edge. The image slides into place much like—

"Sirius, did you _break_ the Mirror of Erised?" Remus' voice heightens drastically in pitch.

"What did you see?"

"I saw—I saw baby lions frolicking in the des—"

"—What did you _see_ , Remus?" All the hope in the world clings to Sirius' idealistic face and bright eyes.

"I see you. Me." Remus clears his throat uncomfortably.

"That's all I needed," Sirius mumbles, angling his face downwards. The distance between them vanishes in an aching spell where time melds into infinity; Sirius' tiny little breaths seem unwittingly sensual against Remus' stubbled jaw.

Quickening pulses, soft little sighs and feathery kisses; rough whispers and idle hands, Sirius whispers, "I just wanted to see the way your skin and bones align," against Remus' lips.

 


End file.
